Hostage to Fortune

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘So we shall cross,’ Catchpoll butted in, ‘but we do it careful. Don’t bunch up, keep well apart, if the horse goes in, for God’s sake let go of the reins, and,’ he pointed at the inanimate heap midstream, ‘try not to break your neck, or even an arm.’

  He sounded less pleased about the ‘adventure’, which was in accord with the men-at-arms’ view, and they nodded. The moonlight − and in this Bradecote had been correct − made the crossing no more risky than in daylight, but it felt other-worldly. They spread out in a line, Catchpoll opting to head nearest to the body on the ice, more from interest than necessity. He had no intention of adding its weight to his own and dragging it to the bank, but if he saw the face, then perhaps, when the river flowed again, and the body washed up, he would know the cause and have no need to ask about kin, or wonder at how he died. Catchpoll did not rush. He disliked the ice more than he would care to admit. It was deceitful, lulling you into a confidence that you could tread onward safely, and then whisking your feet from under you. At very best it was undignified, and at worst, well, the body illustrated that.

  He did not linger with Mauger, but contemplated the features a minute to file them in his brain. The man had clearly fallen backwards, and cracked his skull. Catchpoll sniffed, and carried on.

  There were a few slips and expletives among the sheriff’s men, but all reached the eastern bank in safety. Catchpoll stood next to Bradecote as they prepared to mount.

  ‘And now, my lord?’

  ‘Now, Catchpoll, we skirt Worcester, check there are no massed hoof prints to the doors of Evesham’s tithe barn, and if, as I pray, there are none, we go “home” to Bradecote for the rest of the night. The men can get warm and have a decent meal, and will feel the better for it.’

  This side of the Severn and within a few miles of his own manor, Hugh Bradecote felt at home again. He left the past few days of misery on the far bank, and felt warm from within, whatever the weather might be doing to feet and hands.

  Catchpoll was hopeful also. As long as the morrow brought success, and for the undersheriff that was one thing only, there was no need to ever tell the lord Sheriff how close he had come to the abyss. Nearly every man had a weak point somewhere, and it had not been that surprising that, newly fallen in love, the undersheriff had been very vulnerable. He thought too much, considered Catchpoll. Thinking, when about the who, and how, and why, was good. Thinking, when it meant looking into one’s own soul, that was different. He would always look too deep, hold himself guilty for things that just ‘happened’, think about morality when he was dealing with unemotional law. Keep his woman and his brats out of the business and he would not be the liability he had been in this one case. Catchpoll grinned to himself. He had ‘carried’ a useless undersheriff for years and been glad of it. Now here he was, fretting that this one had been no help for but a few days, and missed the partnership. Perhaps he was getting too old.

  The environs of the tithe barn were pristine, and Bradecote made sure they were not disturbed, lest it advertise their presence the next day. He even kept off the trackway, since he knew the locality well enough to find his way across country by nothing more than moonlight. With a lighter heart than he would have thought possible only that morning, he led the sheriff’s men the last mile to Bradecote, with the calming familiarity of every coppice. He had to hammer upon the gate of his own manor for some time, which was met with some murmurs of amusement from men anticipating warmth and food after a very long day. When the gates were eventually opened by a very apologetic steward, Bradecote waved away the apology, urging him to set the kitchen staff to providing a good meal for all his men, and spiced ale to warm them.

  ‘I was not expected, and I would only be displeased if the gates had not been barred this late, and in the dark. No more words. There are men to feed, horses to be stabled.’

  Bradecote was striding to his hall, where candles were swiftly lit, and a fire lit in the central hearth. The nurse came from the solar, which was kept warm since baby Gilbert lived within it.

  ‘My lord, Master Gilbert has been laid down to his sleep.’

  ‘I will not disturb him, but would see him, please.’

  Shading a candle, she led him into the warm dimness. Gilbert Bradecote lay, fist to mouth, in his cradle. His father looked down at him with pride, and a sudden pang. What if he did not have Christina in this same spot, gazing down at the child, on the morrow? No, he would not think miserable thoughts now. She would be here. He sighed, and returned to the hall, where trestles and benches were being arranged. The nurse shushed loudly, and frowned.

  Catchpoll was in discussion with the steward, but turned at Bradecote’s approach.

  ‘We think we have worked out who will fit where, my lord, and the spiced ale will be along very shortly.’

  ‘Good. Let everyone eat, drink and get some rest. Tomorrow, early, we set our ambush.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kenelm was not a happy man. Being part of a gang suited him, and he felt peculiarly exposed on his own, though common sense should have told him that a single man passing through the countryside would occasion no suspicion. He had done as he was told, and headed northward before trying to cross the Severn, and had reached the outskirts of Hallow before heading east and to the banks of the great river. Here, his problems had increased. His horse took one look at the expanse of ice and rolled its eyes in fear. He tried clucking and coaxing it down the bank, he even tried pushing it, but when it came to a simple trial of strength between man and horse, there was only going to be one winner. Well, the lord Reynald had told him not to take the horse into Worcester itself, so he would just have to claim he tethered it somewhere and some thieving bastard stole it. He would be the butt of jokes if nothing worse, but it was all he could think of to cover his failing. What it left him with now was a crossing across the slippery ice, and then a very cold trudge through snow towards Worcester. Perhaps he should have tried further south, after all, but it was too late now. Taking his few possessions from the animal, he gave it a malevolent stare, and cautiously set foot upon the frozen water. The edge had been frozen some days, and should be the safest part, but Kenelm was, perversely, more confident as he got further out towards midstream. Then his isolation hit him, as though he saw himself from afar as a single dark spot on the expanse of white. He halted, frightened. His heart beat fast, and a trickle of fear-sweat coursed down his spine. He told himself he could not remain where he was, forced one foot to slide in front of the other, and began to edge towards the eastern bank. When he arrived, he felt exhausted from the strain, but knew it was too cold to stop without shelter. It was only a couple of miles to Worcester, but on foot, and in the snow, it would be miserable and slow. He began to trudge southwards.

  There was no decent shelter to be had, no church or stable in which to hide, but he reached Worcester before the gates were shut. His instructions had been to enter first in the morning, and he was still reluctant to deviate from them. Reynald de Roules had shown how he took disobedience, but then, with luck, he would never know of this. That Kenelm might, at this point, ‘disappear’ and never be seen by de Roules ever again, never occurred to him. Taking a deep breath, and keeping his head well down, he passed into Worcester.

  He had forgotten the good smells of a town. The bad were like anywhere, but where produce was bought and sold, bread and pies baked, ale brewed, and all so close together, Kenelm smelt ‘comfort’. He possessed a couple of silver pennies and bought a gristly pie from a vendor who thought there were no more sales to be had that day, and Kenelm was hungry enough to enjoy it as if it had been roasted swan. Hunger assuaged, he turned next to his thirst, and settled himself in an alehouse. The comparative warmth made him sleepy, and his coin lasted long enough for him to become half comatose. He was thrust out into the cold by the host when the last customers were leaving, and staggered, haphazardly, along an alley to find himself by the wharfage. An unsecured door gave him access to a shed, where he collapse
d upon a bale of linen cloth, and snored in blissful oblivion.

  He did not so much awake as was awoken, by a man threatening him with the dire consequences of trespass and theft. That the sleeper had been blind drunk was fairly obvious from the wincing as he opened his eyes, and the bleary, nauseated incomprehension on his face. The agitated owner therefore contented himself with throwing him outside to vomit in the gutter.

  Kenelm was in the unhappy position of a man for whom death seemed more agreeable than a head that wanted to explode and a stomach that wanted to repel anything he might choose to ingest. Thinking was, for a time, quite beyond him, but his hungover state was a perfect cover. Nobody spared him a second glance. Women shook their heads, and hoped any wife of his would take their broom to him on his return home, whilst men divided between the sympathetic and the superior.

  Walkelin was at a bit of a loose end, and wondering what excitement was being had with Serjeant Catchpoll and my lord Bradecote. With the dies and silver secured, his tasks seemed at an end. He was in the bailey, in idle chat with the armourer, when a man rode in, followed by two retainers. He was clearly lordly, from bearing and garb, and his left hand was misshapen, all the fingers missing. A few months ago he would have taken no more interest, but now he followed at a discreet distance to find out who the visitor might be. At the entrance to the great hall, he asked a servant, sent to fetch wine. The servant shrugged, and said it was some lord who was an old friend of the lord Sheriff. It might be nothing to do with him, but even so, on the servant’s return, Walkelin took the tray from him, and entered the hall.

  William de Beauchamp was still engaged in polite reminiscences with his visitor. He raised an eyebrow when Walkelin approached, and the serjeant’s apprentice wondered if he had overstepped the mark, but the sheriff brought a blush to his cheek by introducing him as ‘my serjeant’s right-hand man, and working on this with me’.

  De Beauchamp then spoke to Walkelin.

  ‘I want you to hear this, so we will speak English. The lord Audemer de Brescelin returned from pilgrimage a year and a half back. He is a good and trusted friend whom I have known far too long to even recall our first meeting. I sent word to him yesterday, for he was in the Holy Land two years past’ − he turned to de Brescelin, who nodded confirmation − ‘and might be able to shed light upon Reynald de Roules.’

  With which the sheriff then ignored Walkelin, who began to feel invisible as the two men passed from civilities to the matter in hand.

  ‘I am glad you came yourself, my friend. I will learn much more than from some missive on vellum.’

  ‘Indeed, and when I heard of what you suspect … That you sent a man so swiftly showed how important it was to you, and it was no great hardship. You want to know about Reynald de Roules.’ De Brescelin shook his head. ‘A shame upon the good name of de Roules, and Picot never even knew …’

  ‘Knew?’

  ‘I am sorry. I start in the middle and you need the beginning. Reynald arrived in the Holy Land some years before me, was there briefly, and left before I had completed my vow and stood before the Tomb at Jerusalem. He had a nasty reputation. Fought hard, could not fault him on that, but they said he … enjoyed it too much, liked to take prisoners and kill them slowly, and there were rumours not all he killed were Saracen. He went back to Cyprus, and there …’

  De Beauchamp’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘It was all rumour, nothing proved, until one night he was eating in the company of some French knights, who were entertaining the envoy of the Bishop of Reims. The envoy, who was a cleric of good birth, was introduced. Now, those who knew de Roules, knew he could not abide the religious, but these Frenchmen were not to know. When he heard the name, he apparently went very pale, and glowered at the man all evening. Very brusque and unsociable, yet when he wished to withdraw, he offered to escort him.’

  De Brescelin paused.

  ‘And?’ William de Beauchamp’s grip upon his goblet was so tight, his knuckles were white.

  ‘They found the Benedictine in the morning, thrown over the town walls, his manhood removed and his heart cut out.’

  ‘But why? And was it for certain de Roules who did it?’

  ‘Well, de Roules disappeared, so could never defend any accusation. I heard tell he was a mercenary in France later. A man was found, only a servant, but one who offered his words on oath. He said he saw de Roules take the cleric aside by force, and there was a heated argument. De Roules accused the man of seducing his mother, even though he was already a priest. The envoy at first denied any knowledge even of the name of de Roules, then got very agitated and said that it was entirely the other way round and that Sybilla de Roules corrupted him to get revenge upon her husband. Now, you and I have both met that witch Sybilla, and personally I could well believe it, but … Anyway, the envoy said he had gone to his bishop and confessed his sin and left England forever, and God would be merciful because he was contrite. To which de Roules had yelled that there was no God to be merciful, as the envoy would find out. There was a cry, and the servant played least in sight.

  The combination of what he almost certainly did, and what he said, got de Roules excommunicated, not that I think that would have worried him, Godless bastard that he was.’ De Brescelin laughed suddenly. ‘Quite literally, it seems.’

  ‘But nothing has been said here,’ mused de Beauchamp.

  ‘No. It was a long way away, and once home, who wants to dwell on “out there”? Besides, what good would it do? Henry de Roules is a decent sort of man, a bit weak, but living with her would cow any man. It cowed Picot.’

  ‘If Reynald came back to England, I would say he would tell his mother he had his revenge, and she,’ the sheriff shuddered, ‘would no doubt think he acted quite correctly.’

  ‘You don’t think perhaps she had actually loved …’

  ‘Sybilla de Roules?’ It was de Beauchamp’s turn to laugh. ‘She might have had a passion for him, but if he went squealing to his bishop, she would despise him thereafter. I think the only love she ever felt was for herself and for Reynald, her revenge upon Picot, and in his mother’s image.’

  ‘True enough.’ Audemer de Brescelin nodded.

  ‘The man we seek, the leader, hates the Black Monks, and knows me. He’s a cruel bastard, harms for the pleasure of it, I would say. That all fits with Reynald.’

  Walkelin cleared his throat. The two men had forgotten his presence.

  ‘Forgive me, my lord de Brescelin, but did de Roules make money in the Holy Land? Did he capture silver?’

  De Brescelin frowned.

  ‘Any fight there is not to gain wealth.’ He paused. ‘But in de Roules’s case, quite likely. Some prisoners were exchanged, I believe, and he would have done it for money for certain, not to get back captured pilgrims.’

  ‘And the silver we have is, some of it, from the east, and cunningly wrought, my lord Sheriff.’

  William de Beauchamp did not need the confirmation.

  ‘It is de Roules, I am absolutely certain of it now. Thank you, my friend. You will stay and eat, before returning home?’

  Audemer de Brescelin thanked him, but declined, and the sheriff left the hall with him to see him depart. Walkelin decided he should remain, working on the assumption that the sheriff would return to make any comment upon what had passed.

  Some time about mid-morning, Kenelm remembered his task with a sickening jolt. He fumbled inside his stained cotte. The vellum and the wrapped ear were still there, Heaven be praised. Kenelm, who, unlike Guy, saw no inconsistency between committing deadly sins and a vague observance of general piety, crossed himself. It did not occur to him that if anyone had tried to rob him, neither a piece of a document, nor especially a body part, would have been considered worthwhile taking. He set his mind to obey the last part of his instructions properly. Get an old woman or a child, the lord Reynald had said. Well, Kenelm thought old women far too knowing, so he would pick a child, who would be far easier to intimidate. He made hi
s way, a little more clear-headed now, towards the castle. Before the gatehouse there was open space where children were enjoying the snow and ice, seeing who could slide the furthest, throwing snowballs at each other. He saw a small boy at a doorway. A woman, too old to be his mother, but his oldmother he would guess, was wagging a finger at him. Kenelm wondered if there might be anyone within doors, but decided old women were more likely to live alone than old men, and any husband of hers would not be hard to overpower. He made as if he was just passing by, but suddenly pushed child and woman into the little dwelling. The woman staggered back, surprised and a little scared, but outraged. The boy he took by the scruff of the neck.

  ‘Now listen, brat. I have something I need delivering to the lord Sheriff, see. And I don’t want to hand it over in person, so you are going to be a good lad and do it for me, otherwise you won’t see your oldmother again, not alive anyways.’

  That a scrubby little boy had very little chance of being admitted into the shrieval presence, and would not know how to go about it, was not something Kenelm considered. Reaching the castle gateway was good enough. He vaguely assumed the child would be shooed away, but if persistent would be able to hand over what was intended.

  Huw looked to Mistress Catchpoll, who had her lips pursed tight. She nodded. Kenelm took the folded vellum and the slightly stained rag containing Brother Augustine’s ear, and placed them in the little boy’s hands.

  ‘And you remember, I will be watching, and if you are a bad boy,’ he drew a knife, and made a slicing motion. Huw nodded, turned, ran out the door and off towards the castle. He seemed to be let in the wicket gate by a friendly guard, and Kenelm, watching, relaxed. That was a mistake.

  Everyone in the castle knew Huw, the castle cook’s adopted lad. He was quiet but observant, and seemed to get everywhere and watch people without them realising he was there. The men-at-arms had christened him ‘the castle ghost’. He was being taught his new father’s trade, in the long run, but at eight or so was too small and immature to help much or learn more than an awareness of the kitchen hierarchy, and, after a few painful encounters, that food on tables was not to be taken and eaten. The snowy weather had meant he had been given furlough to play, and Drogo was surprised to see him back indoors so early. He ruffled the lad’s unruly hair, but then an insistent little hand pulled at his sleeve, and a piping treble with a trace of Welsh lilt told him something which made his face grow stern. Huw’s pinched features looked worried, in case he had done something wrong, but Drogo, seeing his concern, patted him on the shoulder and led him from the kitchen.